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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233186">All Problems Can Be Fixed [REDUX]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku'>NervousOtaku</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic OC, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:47:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mo didn't really think before throwing himself at the gunman in the bank. But it turns out he really should have, because now he's in a world of magic, monsters, unethical science, cutthroat politics, and eco-terrorism.</p><p>He's way too sober for this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Before You Read: A PSA</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have only ever played Crisis Core. All my knowledge of the other games is second-hand and thanks to lots of hours of research. </p><p>This is a rewrite. I'm hoping it will be sleeker, more to the point, and better written overall.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The character I created for this story, Mo Tesla, is an alcoholic. However, I didn't design him this way because alcohol is cool, or to promote unhealthy drinking. Mo is not okay. This is a part of his character, and he himself is aware of this. I designed him like this because it has to do with his relationships to others and how the story progresses.</p><p>There are lots of different kinds of alcoholics out there. Mo is what is known as a high-functioning alcoholic— described as able to separate their work self from their drunk self, hold a steady job and financially support themself, and be independent of others. The little details of Mo's drinking were chosen based on real-life examples that I have met, encountered, or lived with.</p><p>Alcoholism is not fun. It is not cool. It can ruin you. It's impact on your health overall is both huge and negative. I can't tell you the signs of an alcoholic or how to live your life, but I can tell you that the recommended limits for a man to drink are three in a day or fourteen in a week, and two a day or twelve a week for women. Regularly going over is bad. Drinking so much you puke or blackout is bad. I can't control you, but I'm not endorsing alcoholism.</p><p>Thank you for reading my little PSA. Please enjoy the story.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mo stood in line at the bank, picking flecks of paint out from under his nails. It wasn't even noon yet and there were already fifteen people in line ahead of him. Leaving before the lunch rush apparently hadn't made a difference. Mo wondered if it ever did, or if there were perpetually twenty people waiting to stand in line ahead of you. Given how much the rest of the world enjoyed dicking people over, he wouldn't be at all surprised.</p><p>Because after all, the world would happily kill your family in a thirteen-car pile-up, have your beloved boyfriend only be using you as a tool to get women into his bed, and make your best friend break up with you because artists aren't cool. So why not have a stock crowd of people to stand in front of you at the bank?</p><p>Mo knew he was being irrational with that train of thought. It wasn't even like that all happened in the same week. His parents and brother were two years dead, Vicky dumped him on the anniversary of their deaths, and Lucius...</p><p>Mo squared his shoulders and resettled his bag as more people came into the bank.</p><p>He told himself he wasn't going to think about that. He was going to deposit his money, get back to work, tolerate the gossips and homophobes, then go home and paint while drinking that bottle of rum he had. He'd just gotten a new batch of canvases, he could pick out some of his drawings and make large paintings out of them. Paint and drink until he passed out from exhaustion.</p><p>The line shuffled forward, and Mo let his eyes flick to the clock as more people came in. After noon. Only by a few minutes but still after noon.</p><p>Really he should scratch the rum from the plan. Everything else was shitty, so he should at least try to make something good happen. It wasn't like any of his work was selling, and with zero friends or family... well, that left going sober. It'd probably improve his overall health. Mental included.</p><p>And it wasn't like he couldn't do it, he reflected as he chewed his lip and examined his nails. He'd gone for a month without a drop before. Extending that into never again shouldn't be too hard.</p><p>He sighed, earning a dirty look from the man ahead of him.</p><p>As Mo turned to check the clock again, a shriek came from outside. Everyone turned to look—</p><p>The window at the front of the bank shattered as something hurtled through it. Shards of glass flew through the air, accompanied by frightened screams. The man who had crashed through the window howled incomprehensibly.</p><p>Everyone skittered back, away from the glass and the stranger. Mo swallowed anxiously, eyes flitting towards the teller desks. He hoped that whatever alarms there were had been sounded. He hoped the police arrived quickly.</p><p>His mouth tasted of blood. He hadn't let go of his lip. It was bleeding.</p><p>Sucking anxiously on the split, Mo turned his attention to the assailant pacing the floor and muttering gibberish. The man looked and smelled like he'd just slogged through a sewer, dripping black sludge and stinking of both rot and chemicals. His skin was deathly pale, his grey hair tangled and matted. His clothes were little more than rags. In one hand he held an antique-looking gun, and in the other a polished green stone of some sort that caught the light eerily.</p><p>Grey hair— it looked so old, but the man looked to be younger than Mo. And despite his drinking habits, Mo wasn't an idiot. You had to be strong to even scratch the glass at the front of the bank. It was thick stuff, likely bulletproof. And yet this babbling stranger had torn through it like it was tissue paper.</p><p>A child began to cry. Mo hadn't even realized there was a child in the bank.</p><p>The madman instantly honed in on the noise, face contorted in a snarl as he pointed his gun.</p><p>He was too sober for this, Mo decided as he lunged forward.</p><p>The stranger had a pretty blatant weight advantage despite his condition. But he wasn't expecting to be blindsided by a hundred and sixty pounds of alcoholic. The two of them went down, screams rising up around them. Mo heard more than saw the gun leave the man's hand, and he blindly swatted until he felt it skitter across the floor.</p><p>“Run!” he managed to yell.</p><p>The pounding of feet sounded around him, and Mo tried to get in a position to better pin the writhing man. But the black sludge was slick and slippery, and he ended up unintentionally headbutting the man. That earned a roar of rage, and Mo gasped as he was thrown off.</p><p>Blinking as he recovered, Mo looked up. The man stood above him, eyes flashing with rage as he huffed and panted. Mo vaguely realized that everyone else seemed to have escaped. As the man raised the green stone up with a feral cry, Mo's eyes landed on the clock. It was ten past noon.</p><p>He barely managed to get his arms up to shield his face as the stone was brought down. He felt it shatter as a bright flash of light engulfed him.</p><p>He felt dizzy. He felt like he was falling. He felt like he was being pulled into a million pieces but also crushed down into a single inch of space. Every squishy part of him objected, every bone howling with hurt. The light was blinding, even though his eyes were closed. His stomach was churning. His mouth was too wet. His hands burnt, face burnt, everywhere that had touched the black sludge burnt. He could hear a multitude of voices for some reason, had the police finally shown up?</p><p>He hit the floor with a thump, cold metal leeching away his body heat.</p><p>... Wait, that couldn't be right. He'd already been on the floor. And the bank floor was carpeted with ugly maroon fuzz. Not cold or metal in the slightest.</p><p>Head spinning, Mo pulled his arms away from his head. Shards of green pinged against the floor. His vision was still blurry, everything little more than smears of color. But despite that, he could make out what appeared to be people in white coats running back and forth. His head was still filled with too many chattering voices, stomach still churning, mouth still too wet.</p><p>Slowly, clumsily, Mo got to his feet.</p><p>That proved to be the wrong choice.</p><p>He leaned over and threw up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mo groaned as he slowly swam towards consciousness. Or he tried to, at least. All that came out was a gross clicking noise, and he winced as his throat protested.</p><p>Ugh. His head was killing him. All he could taste was bile, and he had the worst case of cottonmouth. Gross. Just how much had he drunk last night? Whatever, that beeping sounded like his alarm...</p><p>As he peeled his eyes open, cringing against the harsh light, Mo tried to lift his hands. Emphasis on tried.</p><p>“Wha...?” he managed to mumble, trying to sit up. Again, only managing to try. Nothing past his head would lift off the bed. He was tied down, he found, strapped to what looked like a hospital bed with thick leather straps. It looked like he was </p><p>Mo stared, trying to process what he was seeing. His chest and shoulders, wrists, waist, and ankles were all strapped down. It looked like he was hooked up to a handful of machines, and that was the source of the beeping. He should've realized it was too slow and quiet for his alarm. And all of it was contained in a small, sterile white room with one door and no windows.</p><p>After a moment, his memory kicked in, filling in the bank and the lunatic and the gun and the crying kid...</p><p>“Oh fuck...” Mo rasped, squirming the best he could in the restraints.</p><p>The man had likely been on drugs. Or sick with something. And if it was something communicable, or whatever, and Mo had been all over the man while he was bleeding and covered in mystery goop? Combined with his apparent blackout? That was painting a picture Mo wasn't sure he liked. It suggested that something had happened and happened because of him.</p><p>The bile in his throat nearly rose up at the thought that he might've hurt someone. But why else would he be restrained and locked up like this?</p><p>Tears blurring his vision, Mo let his head fall back down. He swallowed, trying to breathe evenly through his nose. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He hated the thought of needless hurt and violence. But there was no other explanation. He'd blacked out and hurt someone. He had to have. Why else would he be tied up?</p><p>The sound of the door opening was painfully loud to Mo's hungover senses, making him wince. Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he picked his head up again to see who had just come in. He found a man with sleek dark hair and a neat suit approaching the bed.</p><p>“What did I do...?” Mo asked shakily. “I... I didn't hurt anyone, did I...?”</p><p>“Your name.” the man said flatly, not answering the question. Despite that, Mo got the feeling it was a yes.</p><p>Closing his eyes and resisting the urge to break down, he answered quietly, “Mo. Mo Tesla.”</p><p>“Your occupation.”</p><p>“I'm a secretary at Villers Accounting and Insurance, and a freelance painter.” he replied, wondering just how bad it was. If he was being interrogated like this it must've been...</p><p>“Your city of residence.” the man above him continued.</p><p>Comply and get it over with, Mo thought. It was like ripping off a bandaid. At least talking was spurring his saliva glands into working. “Rosenburg, New York.”</p><p>“Who gave you your mako treatment, Mr. Tesla?”</p><p>Mo opened his eyes in confusion. “... Mako...?” he echoed uncertainly.</p><p>“You exhibited multiple symptoms of mako poisoning. It's honestly impressive that you weren't vegetated.” the man elaborated.</p><p>... Oh. Was mako some new drug? And the madman at the bank had been high on it? Mo hadn't heard of it, it must've been pretty damn new...</p><p>“It wasn't voluntary. It rubbed off on me while I was trying to restrain the gunman,” he murmured, “He was insane. Out of his mind. No one understood anything he was saying. It was all just gibberish. But I... I couldn't let him shoot the kid.”</p><p>The investigator above him— Mo was assuming that was what the man was, anyway— seemed to consider him for a long moment. Just as Mo was gathering his thoughts to ask a question, the man turned away. “There's a chance you're still under the effects. We'll continue this later.”</p><p>Mo blinked in confusion. He felt sober and clear-headed, but he supposed if it was a new drug he'd never heard of he might not be the best judge. “Oh... kay. See you.” he mumbled, staring up at the ceiling.</p><p>The door didn't sound as loud as before. Mo didn't know if that was good or bad.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were many shades of white in the world, Mo reflected. All the different tones added by hints of other colors created an entire spectrum of white in of itself. There was white, eggshell, cream, ivory, bone, alabaster... though this room did a very good job of implying there was only one sterile shade. Mo wasn't sure how long he'd been in the room, tied to the bed with only the beeping of the machines to keep him company. He'd napped for a good long while, but his stomach was starting to twist with hunger and his addiction was chewing at his nerves. If he was left alone like this much longer, Mo was certain he'd go insane.</p><p>Just as the thought crossed his mind, the door opened. Mo couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when the man from before appeared again.</p><p>“Thought I was going crazy...” he murmured as the man stood next to his head.</p><p>The man didn't respond, pulling a couple of things out of his pocket. One of them looked like a tape-recorder. But the other was a yellow stone, one that caught the light in a familiar, unsettling way.</p><p>“W-wait, what's that...?” Mo gasped, squirming as much as he could in the restraints.</p><p>“This, Mr. Tesla,” the man said flatly, “Is a manipulate materia.”</p><p>The stone glowed. Not bright, not blinding, soft and just enough to catch the eye. But Mo still felt blinded. He felt like all the wind had been knocked out of him, a simultaneous sucker-punch to both his gut and his skull. A soft murmuring filled his ears as he arched his back, crying out.</p><p>It hurt. It hurt, but he couldn't get away.</p><p>Tears in his eyes, leather straps cutting at his delicate skin, Mo screamed.</p><p>And then, just like that, all the tension left him. Despite not lifting far, his body thumped limply against the bed. The murmuring was still present, the yellow glow of the stone dominating his vision. For a moment, Mo just lay there, panting softly.</p><p>But then the man spoke, saying, “Your name, age, and city of residence.”</p><p>Mo wanted to tell him that they'd already done this part. That even if he'd been under the influence before, he had answered that. Instead he found his mouth saying, “Mo Tesla. Thirty-six years old, going on thirty-seven. Rosenburg, New York.”</p><p>The man frowned. The stone seemed to pulse with light, a faint green aura rippling around it. The faint murmuring grew louder. “Your occupation.”</p><p>“Secretary to floor manager at Villers Accounting and Insurance. Freelance painter.”</p><p>His voice was monotone, void of any emotion. It sounded robotic. He hated it. Mo wanted to scream, wanted to thrash. But it wasn't even the restraints keeping him pinned. Mo felt like his ex was lying on top of him, hands around his throat. It hurt, but he couldn't move. Nothing was listening, not even his voice.</p><p>The man spoke again, asking, “Who gave you your mako treatment?”</p><p>“I don't know what mako is,” Mo's mouth answered, “If it's some sort of drug, then it rubbed off on me from the gunman who attacked the bank.”</p><p>He wondered if he could muster the willpower to bite his tongue off. There was a faint green sheen that was starting to coat everything.</p><p>“Are you affiliated with AVALANCHE?” the man asked.</p><p>“I don't know what that is.” Mo's mouth replied, for once lining up with his brain.</p><p>“What are your intentions regarding Shinra?”</p><p>“I don't know what that is.” Mo's mouth repeated as the yellow stone pulsed brighter. The voices in his ears were swelling, growing louder. The green haze laying over his vision was stronger, starting to blot out other colors. He couldn't breathe right, it didn't feel like there was enough oxygen getting to his lungs.</p><p>“Why did you appear in the Science Department?” the man asked, the question nearly lost to the sound in Mo's head.</p><p>“I'm lost.” his mouth answered, voice breathy.</p><p>The man said something, but Mo couldn't hear it. The noise was too much, and he couldn't see for all the green any more.</p><p>With the last gasp of air he had in his lungs, Mo arched his back and screamed, something somewhere snapping.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Shelter-in-place is not technically quarantine, but it sure puts a damper on things. If only my muse was more cooperative, I could be writing more.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mo stood alone in a dark place. It was quiet in a way that made him think of churches. He stood and stared.</p><p>There were rivers in the air. Or ribbons. It looked like water, but also like light. Somewhere between a river and northern lights. Soft, warm green, twisting and winding. One of them twisted closer, and he stepped back in surprise.</p><p>He could see something moving in it. Nothing solid, just... small particles. But they felt... alive. And as he stretched a hand out, compelled to touch, to run his fingers through it, Mo swore he heard whispers.</p><p>A hand latched onto his shoulder, drew him away. Turning, Mo found himself looking up at a blonde woman he could only describe as powerful. Overwhelming. Awe-inspiring.</p><p><em>Mo</em>, she said, a million voices resonating as one, <em>Wake up.</em></p><p>He shot up, eyes wrenched open, with a harsh, painful gasp. Screams sounded around him, and he cried out at the raw overstimulation. The air in his lungs hurt, the light was too bright, everything around him was too loud—</p><p>Oh fuck he was gonna—</p><p>Mo pitched to the side, body convulsing and chest heaving as he wretched. Very little came up. He suspected it was all bile. When did he eat last? How much had he thrown up since? Why was he so cold?</p><p>“How interesting,” a gleeful voice declared as the screaming faded, “A negative reaction to a manipulate materia, followed by sudden death, and now a full revival!”</p><p>Panting and teary-eyed, Mo lifted his head. There were many people flocked around, like white-coated sheep, but it was easy to pick out the speaker. The man looking at him with a deranged grin was... sleazy-looking. Mo wasn't exactly one for hippy-dippy aura nonsense, but damn if the man didn't put off a bad vibe.</p><p>“Wh... death...?” he gasped, shivering in the chill.</p><p>“Oh yes. Keeled over while the Turk was interrogating you. If I hadn't seen the state of the room I'd have thought they poisoned you.” the man said, shuffling closer. Mo squeaked, trying to recoil when the stranger reached out but failing to evade. “Yes, pulse seems steady... how delightfully intriguing!”</p><p>The man moved away, and Mo pushed himself into a sitting position so he could watch—</p><p>With a shocked yelp, he threw his hands over his groin and pulled his knees to his chest.</p><p>“Oh please, it's nothing anyone here hasn't seen before.” the man scoffed with a dismissive wave.</p><p>“I-I dunno,” Mo stammered, face hot, “Drunk tattoos are always an experience...”</p><p>“Someone get him dressed,” the man ordered as if he hadn't heard Mo, “We can't have him dying again from the chill before we get the chance to examine him.”</p><p>“Why do you keep saying I died?!” Mo demanded as the white-coats— scientists or doctors, maybe?— rushed to obey.</p><p>“Because you were. You're on that table because I was about to cut you open.” the man said in an uncaring tone.</p><p>Mo jumped off the table, nearly tripping over his own feet. The world spun as he did so. He stood up way too fast with way too little sustenance in him. Groaning, he staggered, reaching back to brace himself on the slab. His breathing felt way too labored. He was shaking, too. He needed food. Needed liquids. Needed a beer. Needed fucking clothes.</p><p>Thankfully, one of the white-coated flock was approaching him with a neat bundle of cloth. It looked like little more than hospital scrubs but Mo would take it over being buck nude. He mumbled a thank-you, but was given no response.</p><p>“We'll need a blood sample,” the creepy man said, drawing Mo's attention, “Saliva swab as well. Who knows what we'll find in your DNA!”</p><p>He shuddered a little at the deranged grin, and turned his attention to struggling into the pants. “Sh-shouldn't I... eat...? Or something...?” he mumbled.</p><p>“We'll get to that, first I need as much as you can give me of your medical history!”</p><p>“That will have to wait, Professor.”</p><p>Mo felt a chill roll down his spine at the cool voice. His head snapped around, and he found the neat man in the suit approaching, flanked by a pair of redheads. “You...!” he gasped, skittering back.</p><p>“Oh, what do you want?” the creepy man grumbled. “Come to kill him again, I suppose?”</p><p>He wanted to be sick again at the reminder. He could hear them talking, but the fear thumping in his veins drowned the words out. He didn't think he was breathing. His mind was too busy replaying the agony from before, with the yellow stone. The pain, the loss of control, the green that swamped his vision—</p><p>“Mr. Tesla.”</p><p>He recoiled away, cringing in expectation of the pain that was sure to follow.</p><p>“If you would come with us.”</p><p>Mo blinked, looking timidly up. The suited man was waiting patiently with a blank expression as the creepy... professor, Mo guessed, shuffled off with a much grumpier face. When he didn't move, one of the redheads stepped forward, grabbing the shirt from the table and approaching Mo.</p><p>“C'mon, yo.” the stranger hummed nonchalantly, pushing the fabric into his hands and grabbing his upper arm.</p><p>Swallowing anxiously, Mo didn't fight as he was led away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mo kept his head down, chin tucked to his chest. He was trying to keep his breathing even. Trying to make sure he got enough oxygen. The trio of suits had led him into an elevator, and he couldn't tell if they were going up or down. He didn't know which would be better.</p><p>Timidly peeking out from behind his bangs, Mo snuck a look at the floor-counter. There were seventy floors, he noted. He didn't know what floor they were coming from, but they appeared to be going down. But without knowing if that was good or bad, it was just... fact.</p><p>His stomach groaned, making his face flush hot and his shoulders ride up. He could vaguely see the redheads cast quick looks his way, but no one said anything. It was silent and tense, to the point where Mo almost wished he was back in the chilly room with the creepy professor. He didn't feel safe there, but he didn't now, either, and at least there the tension in the air didn't feel a breath away from snapping his neck.</p><p>Finally, the elevator dinged, doors sliding open. A quick peek at the floor-number before being tugged out revealed that they were now on floor forty-seven.</p><p>It seemed to be suit central here. All the people present wore the same dark suit, with minor variations here and there. He wasn't exactly given time to sightsee, though, the hands on his arms pulling him along. Mo swallowed nervously, wondering what was going to happen to him.</p><p>He still had no clue where he was or what had happened while he was blacked out. He had no clue what he had done. He had no clue what top-secret experimental drug he had been doped with to warrant this. His insides were howling with hunger, and he could feel his fingers twitching. Mo knew he could go a while without drinking, but he was starting to get concerned. How long had it been since his last drink? How long had he been out? How long had he been... dead, apparently?</p><p>Nothing made any sense.</p><p>He wanted a drink.</p><p>A sharp rapping startled him from his thoughts. Looking up, Mo found they were standing in front of an office door. It was blank of identifiers, but Mo was a secretary. He knew an office door when he saw one.</p><p>A gruff voice called out, and the original suit opened the door, stepping inside. After a moment, the redheads pulled Mo along and into the office.</p><p>It was spartan and utilitarian, almost completely undecorated. There was a single potted plant that looked half dead in the corner, and Mo thought he could see a picture-frame on the desk behind the neat stack of papers. The lack of decor drew all the more attention to the scarred man behind the desk. When the man stood, Mo noticed that one of his hands was metallic in color. He swallowed again, fear spiking.</p><p>“Reno, Cissnei, you can go.” the superior said shortly. The two redheads nodded and left, shutting the door behind them. He hadn't heard the lock, but Mo still felt thoroughly trapped. “Sit down, Mr. Tesla.”</p><p>He jumped at his name, unable to keep himself from stepping defensively back. The two watched him with cold, unreadable expressions, and he didn't doubt that if he didn't comply for a second, they'd lay him out. Struggling to stop his shaking, Mo crept towards the indicated chair in front of the desk.</p><p>“Caused quite the ruckus, haven't you?” the superior declared.</p><p>“I-I didn't intend to...” Mo mumbled, hunching his shoulders. “I'm... still not sure what's going on...”</p><p>“Why don't you start at the beginning, and we can all figure it out together.”</p><p>They were, in theory, friendly words, but they were said in such a steely tone. Not even an ounce of warmth. Mo wondered just what he had done.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, he began, “I was at the bank not long before noon. I had a deposit to make. But... maybe five past noon, I think? Somewhere around there, anyway... a man came crashing through the window. He was... he was in poor condition, I think. It smelled like he'd crawled through a sewer, and he was covered in this black guck. And he didn't seem... right. He wasn't talking, just screaming and babbling. He had a gun and some kind of gemstone. Then...”</p><p>Mo paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he steeled himself.</p><p>“Then a kid began to cry. And the man was going to shoot the kid. I... I wasn't even thinking, I just didn't want to let him shoot anyone. I managed to knock him over and get the gun away so everyone could run, but... but I'm not that strong, and he threw me off. N-next thing I remember...” Mo trailed off, his eyes flicking over to the original suit. “I-I thought I was in the hospital, b-but they don't tie you down at hospitals...”</p><p>“Was this gemstone broken at any time?” the superior asked, voice still sharp.</p><p>After a moment spent thinking, Mo gave an uncertain nod. “I... think so? After he threw me off? I... I think I made him mad enough that he broke it over my head...”</p><p>“That explains the shards of it we picked out of your clothes. And you don't remember anything after that?”</p><p>Mo shrank into himself. “Wh-what did I do...?” he asked, voice wavering. “I-I don't remember, b-but I must've... why was I tied down...?”</p><p>The superior turned the computer on his desk around. It was a big, boxy thing, very old-fashioned. On the screen was a grainy black and white image of... of what looked like the place he'd just been removed from. The superior pressed a button or something, and the image began to move. Mo blinked in confusion, watching as a handful of... they must've been scientists... moved around.</p><p>Suddenly, the screen was dyed white, static flickering over the image as it returned. As Mo watched, a newcomer stood up, visibly shaking even on the low-quality video.</p><p>“That's me.” he said in confusion. Neither of the suits answered.</p><p>Dread settling in his stomach and knotting his fingers in his pants, Mo continued to watch.</p><p>The him on video stood still for a second, then doubled over, vomiting. Mo winced, his stomach clenching in sympathy— memory? One of the scientists slowly approached him, and reached out to touch his shoulder—</p><p>“No!” Mo yelled as the him on video whirled around and decked the scientist. His hands covered his mouth. “No no no...!”</p><p>He was unable to look away as several of the scientists charged at him, clearly trying to restrain him. But it wasn't doing any good. He was tearing away and throwing punch after punch, elbow after elbow, kick after kick.</p><p>“No no no no, please no...” Mo breathed, feeling his eyes tear up as he watched himself look down at a collapsed man. “No, don't, please...”</p><p>An anguished scream tore from his throat as the recording showed him bringing a foot down on the man's skull.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don't touch me!” Mo screamed, backed against the wall with his arms up in front of his face. “What did you do to me?!”</p><p>“Mr. Tesla—”</p><p>“I wouldn't do that! I-I'm a pacifist! What did you do to me?!” he howled, face wet with tears.</p><p>“We didn't do anything, Mr. Tesla. When we finally subdued you, you were found to have symptoms of mako poisoning.”</p><p>“You keep saying that— What the hell is mako?! I've never heard of it!” Mo yelled between sobs. His mind kept replaying the image of him drawing blood, hurting people, kicking a downed man in the head. He wanted to be sick.</p><p>“Mr. Tesla, calm down, and I'll explain.”</p><p>“Then explain!” he hiccuped, back sliding down the wall a fraction. His arms were shaking. He wouldn't be able to keep them up much longer. He was too tired, hungry, and sober.</p><p>“I just have a few questions, Mr. Tesla, and then I will.”</p><p>Mo didn't answer, slipping down another inch or so as his arms dropped a bit.</p><p>“Your city of residence, Rosenburg— Where is that?”</p><p>He dropped his arms completely so he could level a flat look at the superior. He got the feeling that the effect he wanted was dampened by his tears, but he still did it.  Rosenburg wasn't large or famous, but someone had to have been there to get him even if they were in a different city now.</p><p>The superior was definitely unmoved, repeating, “Where is Rosenburg in relation to Midgar?”</p><p>Mo blinked, tears slowing. “Mid... wha...? I don't know what you're talking about...”</p><p>The superior turned his head, clearly exchanging a look with the original suit.</p><p>“The city of Midgar. Where we are now.” the superior said as he turned back to Mo.</p><p>Mo shook his head, bracing himself so he'd stop sliding down the wall. “I've never heard of Midgar.”</p><p>He'd heard of Midgard, but he got the feeling they weren't referring to either Marvel comics or Norse mythology.</p><p>“Is it possible that his memory has been tampered with?” the original suit asked calmly.</p><p>“Mako poisoning is known to have effects on the memory...” the superior sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.</p><p>Slightly peeved, Mo muttered, “Check my bag.”</p><p>The two looked back to him.</p><p>“I don't have it, so you must, right? My wallet's in my bag, it has my ID. My address is on there.” he elaborated.</p><p>There was a long, tense moment of silence, and then the superior nodded to the original suit. The original suit nodded back, leaving the office without a word. The superior just stood, staring impassively at Mo. Mo decided he didn't care any more, and let himself slide down the wall to the floor. Pulling his knees to his chest, he made a nest with his arms and buried his head in them. Successfully as cut off from the world as he could currently get, Mo took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking.</p><p>At least his hands had stopped shaking, even if his head was pounding and his entire abdomen was screaming. He wondered how much weight he'd lost, if he was this hungry. Like he wasn't already underweight. It'd be worse now, how long before his bones started showing? At least that meant his next few drinks would kick in that much faster...</p><p>No, no, he shouldn't go down that route. That was a bad place to go. He needed to stop thinking, or at least stop thinking like that. Plan out his next painting or something instead.</p><p>He took another deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled.</p><p>Maybe once all this was over he should look at getting a therapist.</p><p>Mo didn't know how much later it was, but the sound of the door opening had him lifting his head to watch the original suit slide back into the office. The black tote bag the man was holding was unmistakably Mo's. He could see the outline of his flask from here.</p><p>The original suit carried the bag over to the superior, handing it off. Mo watched as his bag was pulled open, relaxing his posture just a bit. His head was starting to pound, eyes throbbing. He hadn't known eyes could throb.</p><p>The superior reached into the bag and pulled out Mo's wallet. It was flipped open, and he watched the two of them examine his ID.</p><p>“... This certainly complicates matters.” the superior said, the steely tone replaced by a grim one.</p><p>“Complicates how? Isn't it already complicated?” Mo bit out. The original suit seemed to quirk a smile for half a second at his words.</p><p>“... Mr. Tesla,” the superior said, closing the wallet and placing it back in the bag, “Do you know what exit materia is?”</p><p>He blinked, then frowned. “Are you going to try brainwashing me again? Because that hurt, and... and I don't appreciate being mind-fucked like that.”</p><p>“Hurt?” the original suit echoed.</p><p>“Yeah. When you were questioning me. It hurt and I couldn't move and I hated it.” he nodded, swallowing anxiously.</p><p>“You were conscious while under the effects of a manipulate materia?”</p><p>He nodded, eyeing the two warily as they exchanged looks.</p><p>“... Is that why you broke it?” the superior asked after a long moment.</p><p>“Broke... what?” Mo frowned.</p><p>“During the questioning, Mr. Tesla, you tore your way free of your restraints. Before I could subdue you, you had seized and destroyed the materia I was using.” the original suit explained.</p><p>Mo's head thumped gently against the wall. “I did what now? I mean... I don't have the muscle to tear out of a wet paper bag... and... I don't remember any of that... I just... you were asking questions, and then next thing I know I'm laid out on a slab.”</p><p>The superior sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “As if things weren't already complicated.”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And you really think this whole... parallel universe thing is true?” Mo asked as he was led towards the elevator.</p><p>“I see little other explanation,” Tseng— the original suit— replied calmly, “Mako poisoning is commonly known to have adverse effects on the memory, but your case seems a little extreme to be just that. It might explain the blackouts, but not everything else.”</p><p>Mo bit his lip, rubbing at his arm.</p><p>The original suit was Tseng. The superior was Director Veld Verdot. The floor of suits was the Investigative Bureau of General Affairs, also called the Turks. The Turks were part of a company called Shinra Electric, and everywhere Mo had been since the bank was within the building of Shinra HQ. Said building was located in a city called Midgar, on a planet called Gaia. Materia were gemstones that allowed their wielders to cast magic, and came in many varieties. The current running theory was that some mishap or other had led someone from Gaia to end up on Earth, and the simultaneous event of an exit materia being used and broken at the same time sent Mo to Gaia.</p><p>Mako was still largely unexplained, though Mo had been told that it could be used to physically enhance people, but large quantities often left them vegetated if not dead. He had apparently been displaying symptoms of mako poisoning when he first arrived, and that was likely what had allowed him to fight off numerous people, tear his way out of sturdy restraints, and smash a materia by hand.</p><p>It was all very complicated and a lot to digest, and Mo was very lost. He got the feeling being hungry and sober wasn't helping his shoddy comprehension. At least he'd gone from raging painful hunger to a dull ache, and his hands had finally stopped shaking.</p><p>“So... now what...?” Mo asked quietly.</p><p>“We're assigning you a guard for now. You'll go get something to eat, and then return to the Science Department for physical evaluation and genetic testing. After that, it'll be up to the board of directors what to do with you.” Tseng replied flatly.</p><p>He couldn't help but gulp a little. The idea of leaving his fate up to an unknown shadowy panel of judges... it sounded like he was good as dead already. He didn't know anything about this place, but this place similarly didn't know anything about him. TV and books made that situation out to be one where he was handed over for experimentation the rest of his life.</p><p>Tseng stopped walking, suddenly enough that Mo bumped into him. He skittered back a few steps with a hasty apology, blinking his way back to the present. It looked like they were at the elevator, one of the redheads from earlier waiting for them with a cheeky grin.</p><p>“This is Reno,” Tseng explained, “Your guard. Stay with him and listen to what he tells you.”</p><p>The or-else-type threat was left unsaid, but Mo understood. He nodded, and Tseng moved away.</p><p>“So, how's it goin', yo?” the redhead— Reno— asked, casual and laid back as if they were old friends. Somewhat lost and not sure what to say, Mo offered a helpless shrug. “Eh, understandable. Anyway, let's go get something to eat!”</p><p>As if on cue, the elevator arrived with a ding. Reno flounced in, and Mo followed more sedately. The redhead swiped a card, then punched the button for the fortieth floor. Almost literally.</p><p>“Everyone talks like the mess grub is shit, but honestly I've had worse hospital food, yo. Stuff looks dubious, but no one's died. Yet, anyway.” the redhead chattered.</p><p>“In my experience, hospital food makes for good hangover food.” Mo mumbled, combing his bangs out of his face with his fingers. Doing so allowed him to see his face in the reflective metal of the doors.</p><p>He jerked back with a shocked gasp, making Reno's head snap around.</p><p>“M-my eyes,” he stammered, staring at his slightly warped reflection, “What happened to my eyes?!”</p><p>Ever since he had been little, Mo had had dark eyes. With his hair in his face, some people said they looked black. But what he saw in the elevator door was not that. No, he saw much lighter brown, with purplish rims and spokes. Not his eyes at all.</p><p>“Aah. Mako.” Reno said, visibly relaxing.</p><p>“What even is mako? Some kind of steroid?” Mo asked miserably, brushing his hair back into his face so he wouldn't have to see the strange reflection.</p><p>“Mmmm, kinda? It's glowy-green super-goo. People exposed to it either die or get souped up. One of the side-effects is mako-eyes— really bright blue, kinda glow a little.” the redhead shrugged as the elevator dinged.</p><p>“... Sounds like radioactive waste.” Mo said with a grimace. Or liquid kryptonite, but he doubted anyone on Gaia would get that reference.</p><p>Reno cackled, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him along—</p><p>“I feel like I've stepped back into high school.” Mo announced as the Turk pulled him to a lunch-line. There was no other way to describe it. It was a lunch line in a large cafeteria eerily reminiscent of high school. He could even pick out the different cliques pretending the group at the other end of their table didn't exist. It even smelled the same, like cooking but not like food. “So many people...”</p><p>“Well, everyone's gotta eat, yo!” Reno replied, shoving a tray into Mo's hands as they sidled along in line. “But yeah, everyone save the higher ups comes through here at least once while at Shinra— your secretaries, your accountants, your troopers, your SOLDIERs— Yo, Rude! Save us a seat!”</p><p>The sudden yell next to his ear had Mo flinching. He looked over his shoulder in effort to find who Reno might be waving at, but... well, aside from a few stares, everyone seemed to be ignoring the redhead. It could've been anyone.</p><p>That aside...</p><p>“Soldiers?” Mo asked with a frown as deadpan workers plopped food on their trays. It looked like high school cafeteria mush, too.</p><p>“Yep!” Reno hummed, stabbing a fork into one of Mo's meal-items.</p><p>“But why would—”</p><p>He was cut off, the redhead elbowing him with a cheeky, “Keep up, yo!” before springing away across the cafeteria.</p><p>Mo paused for a moment, processing what he'd been told, before trailing after his guide and guard. He found Reno sliding into a seat next to an intimidating-looking man with a shaved head and sunglasses.</p><p>“Aren't you supposed to stay with me?” he asked, sitting across from the two.</p><p>“Aww, it ain't like it was that far, yo!” Reno cackled, shoveling food into his mouth.</p><p>Mo rolled his eyes a little.</p><p>“Anyway, this is Rude! Rude, this is Mo, the guy who broke Tseng's manipulate materia!” the redhead introduced.</p><p>The silent man nodded. Mo nodded back.</p><p>“And you were saying something before?”</p><p>After a moment, Reno's question clicked.</p><p>“Oh... yeah. It's just... Why would a power company need... soldiers? Or... human experimentation, secret services? Those aren't... those aren't power company things.” he said, pushing the food on his tray around. There was a mysterious orange blob in one corner. Possibly mashed rutabaga.</p><p>Reno and Rude exchanged a look, neither answering.</p><p>“Power companies... I've never worked for one, but it's all very blue-collar, from my understanding. Yet everyone I've encountered here seems much more... white-collar. And now you're telling me that this place... has soldiers?”</p><p>“How many power companies do you know of, yo?” Reno asked, seemingly deathly serious in comparison to the joking, easy smiles of before.</p><p>Mo frowned. That was such an... ominous question. And... it was power companies.</p><p>“There must be hundreds,” he answered, putting his fork down, “In America alone, I bet. I mean... there's General Electric, they're the big one. Pacific Gas and Electric. American Electric Power. It depends on what kind of power you use, on where you live, on whose policies you agree with... why are you looking at me like that?”</p>
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